


ordinary magic

by heavyliesthecrown



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: A dash of magic, F/M, Fluff, Future Fic (of sorts), a hint of time travel, the undertone of an early two-thousands rom-com
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:33:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25114696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heavyliesthecrown/pseuds/heavyliesthecrown
Summary: At ten, she’s sure that there’s no such thing as magic. At fifteen, she’s not so sure.A crystal ball, a question, and a very different future than she expected.
Relationships: Betty Cooper/Jughead Jones
Comments: 57
Kudos: 156
Collections: 8th Bughead Fanfiction Awards - Nominees





	ordinary magic

**Author's Note:**

> A drabble that spiraled from Hellodinoflower's Bughead Drabble Challenge round 3 genre prompt: "supernatural."

_And that boy, that ordinary boy_ — _or was it all in my head?_

_**(now)** _

When she is fifteen, he climbs through her window. He stands in front of her and says, very quietly, “Also.”

And with just a hint of a laugh wrapped in her voice, she replies, “What?”

He swallows and draws in a breath.

Then—

_**(then)** _

In late December, when she is ten, Betty is forced— _dragged_ —to Thornhill. There’s a large red banner draped over the front portico that reads _“Happy 11th Birthday Cheryl!”_

Below it, a smaller one, like an afterthought says, _“And Jason!”_

Betty doesn’t particularly want to be at Cheryl’s party. She doesn’t like her much. But all the kids from town have been invited and most are going, which means the Cooper girls are, too.

Jughead arrives at the same time as she does, with his mother commanding him to get his ass into the house and not to look so unpleasant before driving off. Betty wishes Mrs. Jones wouldn’t do that—Jughead looks so embarrassed after, and it just isn’t a very nice thing for a mom to do. His face even grows red when he sees her. Betty gives a little wave.

“Hi Juggie,” she says as Polly runs into the mansion ahead of her.

“My mom said I had to come. I wouldn’t be here otherwise.” Jughead glares at the ground, scuffs the toe of his shoe against it. “This isn’t really my scene. It’s all pretty dumb.”

Betty considers it. “I guess I wouldn’t be here, either,” she replies. “Can I tell you a secret?”

Jughead looks surprised for a moment, but then leans over and offers his ear.

“I don’t really like Cheryl,” Betty whispers, and when she pulls back, she finds Jughead looking at her like he’s completely unimpressed.

“Betty, _no one_ likes Cheryl. That’s not a secret.”

Betty giggles even though she shouldn’t. “It might not be so bad.”

“It’s a party,” Jughead says. “It’s _Cheryl’s_ party—it’s gonna be bad.”

“Maybe not. I heard there’s maybe gonna be some magic tricks and stuff. Oh, and a crystal ball lady—Polly said that Jason said.”

Jughead scoffs. “That’s so stupid. Magic isn’t real.”

“But it could be fun just to see what they do anyways, right?” Betty nudges him, eager to get his scowl off his face. “It could be fun, Juggie. Really, _really_ fun,” she sing-songs. “It could be _super_ _duper fantasmalistically_ fun!” Betty extends her arms over her head before arcing them down to her sides. “It could be an over the _mooooooooon_ kind of fun!”

The corner of his mouth ticks up, just barely, but it has her thinking she’s cheered him up a bit.

Archie comes running out, and then _she’s_ all cheered up. And also blushing, as bright a red as his hair. Betty feels a smile stretch across her face when Archie grabs her wrist and pulls her inside, but she notices, out of the corner of her eye, that the one Jughead’s been working disappears instantly.

Betty wonders why.

She wonders what might make him happy.

The crystal ball lady may be old and decrepit, but she can show them all sorts of things about their futures, Cheryl says. Or more precisely, she can show them all sorts of things that _Cheryl_ wants to know about their futures, busybody that she is.

When it’s Betty’s turn (Cheryl’s seventh turn), Cheryl tells the old lady, “Be a dear and show dear, sweet Betty here her _grand amour?_ ”

Betty’s brows draw together. “My what?”

“You wouldn’t know French, would you, _mon petit_ pleb?” Cheryl rolls her eyes. “Your true love, Betty. Whatever _that_ looks like all grown up,” she says, waving over at Archie.

There are whoops and laughs, and Reggie’s voice, the loudest of them all, saying, _“Andrews, it’s about you! Hah! What a sucker!”_

Archie’s face is red. Next to him, Jughead is looking very upset, staring hard at his shoes. Betty herself is downright mortified—how does everybody _know?_ She was so sure everyone _didn’t_.

She doesn’t believe in magic, not really, but Betty presses her nose to the glass sphere and stares in, just so she won’t have to look at anyone else.

Then, she’s somewhere she’s never been before.

_**(many unknowns)** _

A living room, she realizes as she glances around—couch, coffee table—

Betty gasps when she sees a reflection in the dark mirror of the TV. She nearly topples over when she realizes it’s her own.

She’s _old!_ Or old _er_.

She’s _tall_.

She has _hips_ and _boobs_.

She’s in an apartment. It’s small, but it’s really nice and cozy, it’s very neat. Betty feels very calm here, feels like she’s somewhere she simply belongs.

This place—it’s definitely her home; she just kind of knows it.

Betty looks around, slower now, gathering details. The throw pillows on the couch, the small dishes of potpourri, the spray of lilacs in a vase on the dining table—that’s all her doing. But the plastic bag the _New York Times_ comes, strewn randomly and frankly, annoyingly, under the coffee table—that… that’s someone else’s doing.

(She’s a _put-things-away-immediately_ kind of person, not an _I’ll-do-it-later_ type.)

Still, Betty checks the label on the newspaper bag, which has her eyes nearly bugging right out of her head when she sees that she’s Betty Cooper- _something-smeared-off-by-a-raindrop_.

She’s Betty Cooper- _married._

Betty Cooper… Andrews?

She lives in Brooklyn, New York, on a street called Prospect Park West. Zip code 11215.

When Betty squints at the smudged last-name, she’s just about able to make out a faint _‘es’_ at the tail end. A frown starts, but quickly rights itself when she realizes that the people at the _Times_ must’ve just forgotten the _‘w’_ between the _‘e’_ and _‘s.’_ Typos happen.

The crossword page is lying out on the coffee table, atop a messy stack of pages covered in red ink, and under an uncapped pen. The handwriting on the crossword doesn’t exactly look like hers. It’s, well, it’s a big old mess, if she’s being honest. But, she’s giving the puzzle a good go—it’s about a quarter finished. Betty caps the pen, but her heart beats faster as she does.

It’s a very Archie-move to leave a pen lying about like that.

So maybe _Archie’s_ the one giving the crossword a good go.

That’s very exciting to her; she happens to like crosswords.

On the walls, there are movie posters, some framed magazine and newspaper pages, a map with thumb tacks on it—not too many, but a good few. There’s an Xbox hooked to the TV, a record player sitting nearby, and a messenger bag strewn on one of the dining chairs. Betty figures that’s all his stuff.

_(Archie’s stuff, Archie’s stuff!)_

But the typewriter on the desk, that’s hers for sure; she’s always liked them. There’s also a pink laptop open in front of it, hers as well, Betty assumes. She peers at the article pulled up on the screen, feeling her brow furrow in confusion at the title.

_‘Your First Trimester.’_

Of… school? Isn’t she way too old for school? Did she not _graduate?_

She chills at the thought, then taps the computer shut with an outstretched foot, perfectly fine with not knowing any more.

Betty wanders to the kitchen next, eyes widening as she’s all but assaulted by the sight of pots and pans overflowing from the sink. There’s a mixing bowl near it, too, with some pancake batter that’s _way_ too runny. She can tell just by looking at it.

 _That’s the burning smell explained,_ she thinks.

There’s a big bag of tortilla chips on the counter held shut with a binder clip, which is a good thing because there are drops and splatters of watery pancake batter all over the front. Betty is about to sneak a chip when she notices a note scrawled on a white board hanging on the fridge. The handwriting is messy to begin with, and it grows even more illegible as it cramps towards the bottom. But it looks like it might belong to the same person working on the crossword.

 _Fuck pancakes_ — _getting bagels (the good ones). I (your doting husband) will do the dishes (4 pans, 2 pots, 1 bowl, 1 crock pot, assorted spoons), so you (my beautiful wife + strawberry-sized hellion) can go put your feet up (on the couch/bed/etc.)._

_If aforementioned dishes somehow become clean while I’m out, I’ll have no choice (seriously, none at all) but to spend the entire day (May 10, 2031), rutting you into the mattress and keeping you off your feet that way._

_Love you (more than I could ever say)._

There’s a tiny, misshapen heart drawn near the _‘love you.’_

Betty smiles—she’s _loved!_ And a huge amount, apparently.

Then, she frowns. It’s a confusing note with _way_ too many parentheses, and she doesn’t really understand it. Some of the words and concepts are brand new.

Like fuck. And strawberry-sized hellion. And rut into the mattress.

Betty looks around for a dictionary, but she’s quickly distracted by photos. They’re _everywhere_. All around, like she’s thrown confetti and placed a photo wherever a piece landed. She reaches for the frame nearest to her. It takes her a moment to recognize who it’s of, but when she does, it’s with a sharp inhale.

It’s _Archie_. With fewer freckles now.

And Jughead! Without his hat.

This makes her smile—the fact that she’s still friends with Jughead—and that Archie is too. She’s very happy they’ve all taken the friends forever pact seriously.

Jughead and Archie have their arms slung over each other’s shoulders and bottles of something called Budwiser dangling from their fingers.

They look older, which Betty remembers makes sense because she’s older, too. They’re both taller than her now, it looks like, both kind of cute, in a grown-up way, and super serious-looking—they’re wearing suits. Not that she’d been checking, but there’s a ring on Archie’s finger, gold, scuffed like it might be old, and that has her growing warm all over as her thoughts run away.

_Oh my god. Oh my god, I’m really going to marry Archie Andrews and he’s going to love me, and leave me notes on the fridge, and start liking crossword puzzles at some point, and try and fail at making me breakfast, and oh my god. Oh my god, oh my god._

_Oh. My. God._

Betty sets the photo down and snatches up the one next to it, recognizing the backdrop.

It’s the Colosseum. _The_ Colosseum, the one in Rome. They’ve just done a chapter on the Ancient Romans in history class, so Betty knows that’s most definitely it.

“Wow,” she whispers, hovering her finger over the glass and tracing the archways.

 _She’s_ at the Colosseum in this photo. She _goes_ to the Colosseum.

With… Jughead, for some reason, but that’s not really so strange. Her mother goes to these places in California called “the vineyards” every year with her other mom-friends to “get happy,” so maybe she’s just getting happy with Jughead in Rome, same kind of deal.

They’re facing each other instead of the camera, and Betty can tell from Jughead’s hand, resting lightly on the curve of her shoulder, that he’s married, too. His ring is silver and very shiny. Betty can’t see her own hand from this particular angle, but she wonders if she’s married herself by the time the photo is taken.

She wonders if Jughead ends up getting married before or after her. Wonders who his wife is.

It’s a weird concept to her, Jughead with a _wife._ He always gets very red when she asks about who he has a crush on and whether or not it’s Ethel; it always ends with him stomping off and muttering _“it’s no one, okay? Just drop it, Betty,”_ after a while. So, she’s curious.

She’s probably pretty cool, though, the person Jughead marries. Or he—Betty isn’t sure where he falls on that spectrum. But she thinks he’s pretty cool, even if he is sometimes moody and broody, so she doubts he’d marry someone who wasn’t equally as cool.

Whoever Jughead ends up marrying, it’s nice that he looks happy in the picture, and that she does, too; whatever makes that vineyards place great, probably makes Rome great as well. Jughead is definitely _really_ happy, about the happiest she’s ever seen him. She’s never seen him smile like that, like it’s reflected in his eyes.

Betty remembers how he’d said just a few days ago, while they were all walking to Archie’s house after school, that he wanted to go to Rome so he could try real pizza. She reminds herself to let him know later he makes it there one day—that might cheer him up a little.

She sets the photo back in its place and thinks to herself that it’s a really cute picture.

Like, stupidly cute.

Jughead’s ring looks a little like the one she’s wearing, Betty realizes as she catches a glimpse of her own hand. Hers is silver, too. It’s almost as if they match or—

She’s at an airport now.

Betty notices her shoes first—a pair of pink velvet flats, straps across the top, a set of bows on the back. They’re pretty. They’re _super_ pretty.

Her mother believes in wearing heels on the plane because her mother believes in dumb concepts like looking one’s best at all times, even when one is at an airport near midnight. Betty glances around, and when she doesn’t see her mother, she thinks to herself, _“Hah.”_

There are many signs above the exit. The one pointing to the right says _To NYC,_ to the left, _To New Jersey._ Betty bites her lip. She’s pretty sure she’s supposed to go right, but she’s not positive. She remembers Brooklyn, New York from earlier, but starts growing anxious when she realizes she never took note of the building number that came before Prospect Park West. She’s forgetting the zip code, too.

_It’s one-one-oh gosh-_

“Fuck, I missed you.”

All of a sudden, she’s lifted right off her feet and spun around. Betty squeals and drops her suitcase.

It’s a _guy_ , she realizes, and a guy’s voice. Betty’s feet tap down after a moment, and then she’s gathered up into a hug so tight she can barely breathe. Her chin digs hard into his shoulder, his hand holds the back of her neck.

“I missed you so much. I didn’t even know if you were coming after yesterday, and I’ve been going crazy, losing my mind, and– I’m sorry, Betty. God, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it—any of what I said. I didn’t mean it.” He’s talking so fast and speaking right into her hair, that she can barely hear what he’s saying, let alone recognize his voice.

“It’s not too hard,” he continues, “Life without you is what’s too hard. I don’t even want to think about what that’d be like. I don’t want to know. So I’ll go to Boston or you can come here, or you can stay in Boston and I’ll stay here, or any and all other variations of the above.” He pulls back, and with her face in both his hands, presses a firm, almost desperate kiss to the top of her forehead. Then, he’s hugging her again before she’s able to get a good look at him. “Just let me love you—let me _keep_ loving you,” he says. “Please. Because I do, I love you so much, and I’ll love you wherever you are and wherever I am. I always will.”

Betty moves her hand to his head, runs her fingers through his hair a few times. She just does it, without knowing why. It’s like an instinct. His hair is soft and much longer than Archie usually lets it grow.

He relaxes a little, and Betty recognizes then that there’s something pushing up against her hip bone, something that’s in his jacket pocket. It’s hard, but it’s small, too, and… squarish in shape?

She wonders what it is.

His arms around her loosen as he begins to pull back to look at her—

She’s in some kind of auditorium. There’s a banner that reads _“Congratulations, Graduates!”_ to the left of the stage, another with _“Class of 2024”_ to the right.

They’re yellow banners with black lettering, so Betty figures she is not at Cheryl’s graduation.

She’s in Iowa, according to the program in her lap, at the University of Iowa’s Writers’ Workshop graduation ceremony. It confuses her for all of a moment, but then, she’s nearly run over with excitement.

Her influence will probably rub off on Archie one day, Betty realizes.

He’ll study more, do crossword puzzles, go to college and maybe even do something really cool after it, like write a book.

Archie isn’t listed under the last-names beginning with _A_ , though, and Betty is just about to find someone to give them a piece of her mind about it when a girl sits down next to her, sullen and huffing. She’s sixteen, maybe seventeen. Or eighteen. Something around that age.

“God, I’m so _bored_. Aren’t you bored? This is like the _fifth_ freaking ceremony so far.”

“Do we know each other?” Betty squeaks.

The girl narrows her eyes, then sighs. “You’re on drugs, aren’t you?”

“ _No!_ Oh my god, _no!”_ Betty looks at the girl. She looks familiar, especially with that tired scowl on her face. Like a female version of… someone.

The girl stares back, titles her chin towards the empty stage, and says in a very _I’ve-had-this-conversation-too-many-times-to-count_ tone, “Save the good-girl stranger fantasy for him, then, would ya?”

“The _what? For who?_ ”

“Uh, my brother? Seriously, Betty, what’s up with you?”

Betty has many questions, like how stranger-danger factors into a good-girl stranger fantasy, like how on earth did an Andrews end up with sandy-colored hair, when she’s thrown somewhere else.

A dorm room.

 _Her_ dorm room.

That’s _her_ quilt on one of the beds, the same quilt she’s got on her bed at home right now. It’s draped over the bed on the left, so that one must be hers. Although the black backpack leaning against it that’s the size of her entire torso and then some, definitely isn’t.

But this is her room. Her future room in what must be her future college.

There’s a pennant hanging above her desk. Betty sounds out the school’s name as she runs her fingers over the felt. It’s foreign on her tongue.

“Columbia.”

It’s a good school, right? She doesn’t know much about colleges and stuff yet, but she thinks this is one of the good ones.

There are a few photos on her desk. One, of two red-headed toddlers that weirdly, look a little like Cheryl. Another, in a silver frame of four people dressed nicely in suits and dresses. Betty looks closer and realizes it goes, from left to right, Jughead, then her, then a very pretty girl wearing a gold locket and with just about the glossiest hair Betty has ever seen, and then finally, Archie.

The order is… it’s slightly off.

Shouldn’t she and the girl next to her have traded places? She’s also kind of pressed a little close to Jughead.

Okay, very close, like _right up_ against his side. He has his arm around her, his hand wrapped around her waist. His thumb is grazing—Betty gasps and her eyes fly wide—the _underside of her_ _boob_.

(They’re great boobs, though; she’s going to have really awesome boobs.)

Betty figures they all must be really good friends and just chill with being close to each other like that, since Archie and the girl with the gold locket are also standing the same way. Betty notices a blue graduation cap in the corner of the photo and a—

_“Betts!”_

Betty jumps and drops the frame. She turns in an entire circle before realizing the voice is coming from beyond her door. Betty assumes she’s this “Betts” person, but since no one’s ever called her that before, she ventures a careful, “Huh?”

“If this is you stalling because I said burgers are better than sex, that was a joke and you know it!”

_Sex?_

Betty sounds out the word silently to herself. She looks around for a dictionary again.

“Betts, come on, I’m starving! It isn’t funny anymore!”

This voice is teasing, but loving. Affectionate. But even taking the deeper register into account, it doesn’t really _sound_ like Archie.

“I’m carrying you out of there in three-two-”

If anything, that sounds way more like—

Betty whips around as the door opens.

Then, she’s at Pop’s, and finally somewhere familiar.

There is a literal mountain of food in front of her. It’s too much for one person. The entire table is covered with plates. It’s way, _way_ too much.

(But Archie looks perfectly fine in all the pictures she’s seen him in so far, so who is she to say?)

“Hey, sorry,” a voice says. It’s _that_ voice again, the strange but familiar one from before. From Columbia. The voice’s owner leans over and kisses the top of her head before she has a chance to see his face. “Bike’s been getting worse,” he sighs. “I need to get someone to look at… hang on, lean forward a sec? There’s something in your hair.”

 _“Bike?”_ Betty says. Screeches, really.

She tries looking up, but she’s still caught in the dark space between his t-shirt and jacket. The jacket is fleece-lined and the t-shirt has a graphic screened on it, a squiggly shape.

“What bike?” Betty demands. “ _Whose_ bike?”

“You stay up too late reading creepypasta again?” She feels his laugh rumble through his body. “My bike, baby. And before you say I told you so, yes, I’m an idiot for messing with it, and yes, I probably made it worse by—damn, what the hell is this? It’s like woven into your scalp.”

“ _Your-”_ Betty swallows. “A bike-with-an-engine, bike?”

“Ah ha, got it. Straw wrapper.” She’s distracted by the hand he holds out to her, and not just by the little piece of white paper in the middle of his palm, but by the ring he’s got on.

It’s on his middle finger, and there are two thin strips of black on the middle of the band, but it’s mostly… silver.

“Thanks for ordering, by the way. I’m starving,” he says.

(Why is he _always_ hungry?)

Betty swears that she catches a glimpse of dark hair as her eyes begin to flick up. Thinks, based on the photos, on that Rome photo in particular, on that ring he’s wearing now, that it might not be Archie she’s about to see after all.

Thinks that it might just be—

She’s on a bike. The back of a bike.

It is, most definitely, a bike with an engine.

Her mother is going to _kill_ her.

If she doesn’t end up killing herself on this thing, first. It’s kind of terrifying. The ground is just _there_. As in moving parallel to her feet-there. Her stomach flops as she watches the road rush past, so Betty squeezes her eyes shut, presses her face into leather, and holds on quite literally for dear life.

Over the wind, the voice from before calls back to her, “You’re about to have a dead boyfriend if you squeeze any harder, Betts!”

His hand comes over her own, skin slightly rough. He moves one of hers up to the left side of his chest. A steady _thump-thump_ pats against her palm like a friendly greeting. He brushes his thumb over her knuckles, and she feels safer. Just plain safe, actually.

A little like she’s flying, even, when she slows and lines her heartbeat up with his.

Then, she’s in her room and it’s perfectly still.

She is still, and the world is, too.

Her eyes are closed, but she smells her favorite hairspray, and… sage, strangely enough. And something nice. She can’t place it. But it’s very comforting.

There’s a soft hand on her neck, the lingering taste of toothpaste in her mouth. And coffee, too? Betty doesn’t really know what coffee tastes like, but she thinks that might be it.

She feels infinitely calm, like she’s somewhere she belongs; like she’s at peace.

Betty opens her eyes to a face very near her own. She sees a swoop of dark hair, the same one from Pop’s, first. Then, fluttering eyelashes, and gray yarn, knitted into triangles.

It’s kind of like a zigzag. Or the points of a crown, or possibly a—

_**(then, plus a few moments after)** _

“Your true love,” Betty hears, and then she’s back at Cheryl’s stupid party she hadn’t even wanted to go to in the first place.

The old woman looks at her, but Betty doesn’t say anything back. She does glare at her, though, mentally chanting over and over— _magic isn’t real, I know it isn’t, and I also know that the boy I’m going to marry will have red hair._

_It’s red, it’s going to be red, Archie has very red hair, and magic isn’t real. It isn’t real, you stupid lady. You’re so stupid and your job is really stupid. And you have a stupid butt-face. And… fuck pancakes._

_Yeah. Fuck pancakes._

Somewhere in the background, Reggie is laughing, still joking about _“the future Mrs. Andrews.”_ Cheryl is telling her to, if she wouldn’t mind, to wipe the red off her face, since it’s her day and her color.

Betty can’t quite bring herself to look at Archie, so she looks at other people instead. Jason, who’s looking very bored at his own birthday party. Polly, looking at Jason like she’s anything but bored, which is _interesting_. Betty stashes that detail away for later. Ethel is looking very upset for some reason. And Jughead is…

He’s gone, Betty realizes.

It’s probably why Ethel is looking so unhappy.

Betty wonders where he went.

**_(then, plus that evening)_ **

She ends up forgetting to tell Jughead about Rome. Apparently, he’d just walked right out the door and left the party during her turn with the crystal ball. Mr. Andrews found him wandering down some street on his way to pick Archie up. Betty does try to remind herself to tell him later. But then her mother is there, picking her and Polly _and_ Archie up from Cheryl’s party, since Mr. Andrews is still with Jughead.

Archie ends up staying over for a while, long enough to watch a movie. Somewhere near the middle, he says, “Don’t you just wish we could stay in Riverdale and do this forever?”

And Betty hesitates as she looks for her answer.

Sure, Riverdale is great, but places like New York, Rome, Boston, and even Iowa, all seemed kind of exciting to her, too.

But she reminds herself that magic isn’t real, and that what Archie is saying to her, and how much she likes him—those things _are_ real.

Betty smiles. “Yeah, I wish we could stay here forever, too, Arch,” she says, and Archie smiles back.

Still, Betty loosely crosses her fingers behind her back, even as she puts the life she’d seen at Cheryl's birthday party to the back of her mind. And unwittingly, the thing she was supposed to tell Jughead about Rome goes along with it.

A lot of present life happens, and Betty very quickly forgets that strange future life she’d seen.

_**(then, plus three years)** _

When she’s thirteen, Jughead comes up to her and hands her a pen.

“Hey, Betts, would ya mind signing this?”

And immediately, Betty thinks— _I’ve heard that name before, haven’t I? I’ve heard it… somewhere. Someone’s called me that before._

She accepts the pen, already clicked and ready to write.

“Did you… did you just call me Betts?”

“Um, no,” Jughead says firmly, shaking his head. “You should probably get your ears checked if that’s what you heard. No way, nuh-uh.”

Now, Betty smiles. “Ya-huh! Juggie, yes you did!”

“I did not!”

“You did!”

_“No I didn’t.”_

Betty notices he’s getting very rosy-cheeked and that his hands are digging so far into his pockets that he might break his jeans, so she drops it, and says instead, with a little shrug, “I kinda liked it, so it’s too bad you didn’t.”

After a few long moments, Jughead sighs very dramatically. “Okay, fine,” he says. “ _Maybe_ I did.”

She signs her name _‘B-e-t-t-s,’_ in his seventh grade yearbook, just to show him she’d really meant it.

_**(then, plus three years, until now)** _

In his eighth and ninth grade yearbooks, she still signs her name _Betts_. She likes the name, likes it when he calls her that.

_**(now)** _

There’s a slight breeze blowing in from her window, still open from when he’d climbed in moments before, swirling up the scent of her hairspray and sage from her mother’s antics. And also the scent of something that’s just … nice. Jughead, she thinks, and whatever shampoo or soap or laundry detergent he uses.

He stands in front of her and says, very quietly, “Also.”

And with just a hint of a laugh wrapped in her voice, she replies, “What?”

He swallows and draws in a breath.

Then—

He kisses her.

Betty is caught off-guard, but only for a moment. His hand is on her neck, guiding her to him. She brings one of her own to his cheek, guiding him back. They navigate, they meet in the middle, and she tastes... Toothpaste.

Toothpaste, and coffee.

She’s sure of it now—that’s the unmistakable sharpness of coffee.

Jughead pulls away very softly, and the feeling that follows, she’s felt it before, she realizes as a smile builds across her face.

She feels infinitely calm, like she’s somewhere she belongs; like she’s at peace.

And she knows, even before she opens her eyes, she’ll have seen the heartbeats of glimpses that follow, too.

A swoop of dark hair, fluttering eyelashes, and the knitted points of an old beanie.

_**(a moment after now, and a few moments after that)** _

For all of a moment, Betty considers telling him everything, before quickly deciding against it. This is their very first kiss and saying something like, _“Hey, guess what? I think there’s a big, non-zero chance you’re my true love and future husband!”_ after it, might scare him right back out her window.

 _“The car,_ ” Betty says instead, eyes wide.

There’s a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth and a playful glint in his eyes. “Wow,” Jughead says. “ _That’s_ what you were thinking about in the middle of our moment?”

(She’s heard this tone before in a dorm room in New York. It’s teasing, but loving. Affectionate.)

“No,” Betty answers gently, but she explains about Jason’s car anyway. Because there’s still a kid out there, a dead one, and they need to get to the bottom of what the hell happened to him. She thinks that she kind of owes Jason that. And Cheryl, too, _maybe_ —but, baby steps.

She’d potentially found out something very important about her life back at Jason’s eleventh birthday party, so Betty figures it’s only right she return the favor, and find out this very important thing about his.

“I need to know, Juggie,” she says.

“I know,” he answers softly. “I know you do.” Jughead draws in a deep breath, like he’s gearing up for something, then says, “Okay. Following your lead, Betts.”

But he looks at her, expression both infinitely understanding, and infinitely understandable as it adds more meaning to his words— _I’m here. I’m with you, all the way._

They go from there.

_**(now, plus that evening)** _

Later that night when she’s in bed, turned towards her window, Betty thinks—about whether she should tell Jughead what she potentially knows about them, about magic and how it exists in the universe.

About magic, she concludes that there are two kinds.

There’s the extraordinary kind—it gives power to glass spheres and it fuels the supernatural, etcetera, etcetera. But whether or not it truly exists and to what degree, whether or not she’d truly brushed with it, Betty doesn’t particularly care to find out.

Because there’s a second kind of magic that's far more interesting to her, a kind of magic she’d like to learn to wield, that she’d like to find and keep safe—the ordinary kind of magic that exists amongst mere mortals, but that’s infinitely precious.

It’s the magic that exists in simply living life and in striving to find the brightness in the dark, the magic that comes from feeling loved, and in loving, in safety and happiness and hope, in laughter, in belonging.

There’s a lot of comfort that comes from knowledge. But, there’s something exciting in living an unanticipated life, too—in being surprised by the moments of unbridled happiness and comfort that unfold unexpectedly, in experiencing a love that feels almost overwhelming in how deep it runs as it builds and takes root over time.

So about Jughead, she decides that it’s better to let the cards fall as they will; Betty doesn’t know that they’ll fall the way she’d seen, anyhow.

For now, she’ll let him discover, without any influence from her or the extraordinary, where life might take him all on his own, and she hopes that wherever it does, whether it’s to the future she’d seen or another one entirely, they’ll both be lucky enough to experience the spell of that very ordinary kind of magic.

_**(may 10, 2031)** _

On Saturday morning, in a small, but cozy apartment in Brooklyn, New York, Betty stands in front of her fridge. She reads the note on the white board again, before snapping a photo to preserve it, laughing a little to herself. Her hands are slightly damp.

The sound of keys turning in the lock echoes.

“Hey you,” he says, and she hears a smile in his voice before she even sees it.

Betty looks to the door, and when her gaze falls on him—dark hair escaping out from under an old beanie and a worn sherpa jacket on his shoulders, a bag of good bagels balanced on his left arm and silver ring on his fourth finger winking at her as it catches the light drifting in from the window—she’s overwhelmed by how indescribably glad she is that it’s him, not anyone else, standing at the threshold of their home.

Then, Betty smiles.

“Jug,” she says very simply, heart intensely full, “hey.”

Betty takes a few steps to greet him and pops up on her toes to give him a quick kiss.

“Mm,” Jughead hums, brushing his free hand down her arm before going in for another. “Morning. You’re up early.”

Betty shrugs. “Had a few emails to answer, had dinner to see in reverse.”

“So it’s not the best of mornings, then,” he sighs before pressing a kiss to her forehead. “I’m sorry, Betts. Anything I can do? Water, shoulder rub?” he asks, but Betty just shakes her head. He sighs again. “I hate that this is happening to you.”

“But you’ll love the result,” she reminds him with a smile.

“I will,” Jughead agrees. “I already do. Still—it doesn’t mean I’m not allowed to dislike the parts of the process that make you sick. Doesn’t mean you aren’t allowed to, either.” His hand is wandering to her back now, and Betty sighs happily at the sensation of his thumb running down her spine. “I’d throw up for you if I could.”

Betty wrinkles her nose. “That’s unbelievably disgusting.”

“Is it? I was going for sweet.” He moves past her into the kitchen, but Betty lingers, leaning on the door frame as she waits for his inevitable groan at the sight of the empty sink.

Which happens when he sets the bag of bagels onto the counter.

“Seriously, again?” Jughead draws a circle in the air around the white board, but Betty just smiles. “The subtext of this was for you to _rest_ , baby.”

“Oh, shoot! Really?” Betty plants her hands on her hips. “What a pickle. That’s not how I read it at all.” She shrugs, then says innocently, “well, Jug, I guess you’ll have to be even more careful with your words next time!”

Jughead merely raises an eyebrow; they’ve been here before. “More careful than, what… sixseveneight— _eight_ parentheticals?”

“Oh no, those were fine—clear as day,” Betty says lightly. “It’s that last part I was, oh gosh, just _so_ confused over. That part about the alternate way of keeping me off my feet?” She sidles up to him, and the slight smirk she has on her lips blossoms into a full-blown smile when he puts his arms around her, his fingers locking together against the small of her back. “See, here I was assuming you knew I preferred that method, and here I was thinking you were trying to incentivize me into doing the dishes.” Betty leans into his touch as his hands begin roaming under her t-shirt, pausing briefly over her abdomen. “My mistake.”

“I’m taking them with me next time,” Jughead warns. Then, he kisses her and turns so that he’ll be the one walking backwards towards their bedroom.

They have sex slowly; it’s Saturday and have the time to, and he’s still working on internalizing the fact that sex won’t in fact shake anything loose. But Betty enjoys slow, enjoys catching the wonderful things he says to her, things that have her feeling like she’s someone beyond the bounds of a normal person—she’s all he’s ever wanted, there’s no one luckier than him on the planet, she’s loved, God, is she loved. Her hands wander his body, delicately and with fluttering fingers at first as she presses light kisses against his shoulders, then with more urgency as she breathes her moans against his skin.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” Jughead says, his grip on her hips firm as slow turns into not-so-slow. “So fucking amazing.”

Betty answers with short mumbles, saying “ _more,”_ and _“yes,”_ and _“please, Jug,”_ against the corner of his mouth. They’re words that don’t mean much of anything as standalones, but that he understands with preciseness just the same.

They fall over the edge together—it’s one of those well-timed days—and she smiles at the soft chorus of “‘ _love you, baby,’_ and _‘fuck, I needed that,’_ recited against her neck as he catches his breath.

To _‘thanks for doing the dishes,’_ ” Betty responds, still a little breathless also, “I was incentivized well.”

Jughead laughs, and she hears a very pure kind of contentedness in it.

A little later, Betty shimmies on the t-shirt he’d been wearing and crawls back into bed. Jughead busies himself outside for a while longer, then returns with the crossword page, a pen, and bagel—on a plate because crumbs, no cream cheese because even the sight of it is currently making her sick. He hands her the pen without argument—her handwriting is more legible than his, no contest—but stands his ground when she challenges what he’s got for twenty-one down; clue—“nice brushes.”

“Haircomb?” Betty questions. “There’s nothing really nice about that.”

“Sure there is.” He shakes his head at her, hair falling messily over his eyes. “It’s _nice_ that there’s something out there to tame this.” Betty laughs, but taps the pen against the page. She’s still unconvinced. “Okay, genius,” Jughead says after a minute, “what is it, then?”

Betty looks at him, and her breath catches a little at how he’s looking back at her—like he really does think she’s a genius, like he’s going to love her forever and then some. And suddenly, it’s very obvious.

“It’s this,” she answers, gently combing his hair off his forehead before bringing her hand to rest on his cheek.

Jughead frowns. “Foreplay?”

Betty rolls her eyes, crosses out _“haircomb”_ and writes in _“caresses.”_

His answering smile and his _“oh,”_ are both a little sheepish.

They continue on, taking turns reading out the clues in case their strawberry-sized hellion is an early developer, and can, somehow, hear voices and absorb information by osmosis at this stage.

It’s a slow, lazy Saturday spent almost entirely in bed. There’s more sex, and a terrible Netflix original pulled up on his laptop they nap and trade lazy kisses through, a crossword they get really damn close to finishing, and too many nice brushes to count.

There’s takeout from a diner that’s nowhere near as good as Pop’s for dinner, and that Jughead whisks out of both their laps when Betty starts sniffing at the air and sliding a hand over her abdomen. On his Notes app, he adds bacon to the growing list of scents that are currently making her nauseous, a list that might as well be titled _Jughead’s Most Favorite Foods on Planet Earth_.

But when she starts miserably, “Jug, I’m sor-” there’s a firm kiss stamped to her lips, silencing her apology.

“Don’t even think about it,” he says.

“But bacon now?”

“Nothing wrong with a cholesterol-conscious strawberry,” Jughead says, giving her knee a squeeze.

Betty bites her lip. “But what if it’s a strawberry with a vendetta against you?”

“Nah,” he answers, eyes bright. “It’s a strawberry that’s too preoccupied with growing fingers and toes to have a vendetta. And as part-contributor to our little crop project, I say that with absolute certainty.” Her spirits lift; no one is better than he is at cheering her up. “Here’s the thing, Betty, and it’s okay if this escaped your notice—I know I have many, _many_ great qualities to keep track of.” Betty laughs a little. “But it just so happens that I’m a fan of all foods.”

She smiles a bit now, too. “Is that so?”

“Mhm. I’m very non-discriminatory. So statistically, there was bound to be overlap between what offends your nose and our fruit or vegetable of the week, and my very extensive list of favorite foods.”

Still, Betty sighs—this one’s hitting her hard. “But you like burgers best,” she says. “Burgers with bacon on them.”

Jughead looks at her, and with the softest kind of smile on his face, he replies, “Not even close, baby. I like _you_ best.”

There’s a second dinner ordered after that, one that doesn’t quite “compare to the authentic thing, but that’s good on its own,” and then a moment Betty laughs over; when the pizza arrives and she lets out a sound of approval, Jughead pets her stomach gently and says, “good strawberry.”

Even later, there’s a moment Betty nearly cries over; as they’re getting ready for bed, and she’s standing at the mirror with dots of moisturizer on her face she hasn’t rubbed in yet, he comes down on his knees in front of her, presses a kiss to her stomach, one of the gentlest, most tender things she’s ever felt, and says, eyes looking up and locking with hers, voice reverent and raw with honesty, “I didn’t know I could be this happy.”

And as May 10, 2031 becomes May 11, 2031, Betty turns to him, and both asks and tells him with the deepest sense of peace and belonging filling her heart, “It’s pretty spectacular, isn’t it? This life? As ordinary as it is.”

Jughead smiles; he shakes his head slightly, he caresses her cheek.

“Betts,” he says, and it’s with so much love that she’s spellbound by her own name, “it may be ordinary, but this life with you is nothing short of magical.”

_**Fin.** _

**Author's Note:**

> Epigraph from “Ordinary Day” by Vanessa Carlton.
> 
> “Nice brushes”/caresses was, in fact, a NYT Saturday crossword clue and answer on April 1, 2006. 
> 
> Hope this brightened your day, even a little! Thanks very much for reading!


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